


as if you were praying for god to strike you

by Kaesa



Series: Kaesa's Whumptober 2019 fics [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphysical Strangulation, Past Michael/Ligur, Post-Canon, Torture, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: The Archangel Michael has some difficult questions for Crowley.  Crowley just wanted to troll some landlords.





	as if you were praying for god to strike you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2019, for the prompts "pinned down," "asphyxiation," and "abandoned."
> 
> Both the title and the setting of this fic are from [this amazing description of a horrible flat for rent in Kensal](https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/3kxpdn/studio-flat-rent-kensal). Please read it -- before the fic or after it, I don't care, but it's hilarious.

Since he and Aziraphale had split ways from Heaven and Hell, Crowley had been amusing himself by bringing misfortune and comeuppance to Craigslist scammers and other internet marketplace bottomfeeders. He had answered an ad for a horrifying flat that looked like it had been designed by a particularly sadistic player of the Sims, but one that was strongly encouraged to leave the doors in, at least until your deposit check had cleared. The washing machine was installed behind the toilet, and while Crowley had never really needed either, it seemed like the sort of layout that he might have passed on to Downstairs had they still been on speaking terms.

He had not expected a £1,092-a-month studio to be his downfall. He'd wandered in after the agent showing the place and thought, _Huh, this is actually surprisingly roomy. Might even be a decent walk-in closet, if you took out the entire kitchen._Then he'd admired the horrible wiring, the downright torturous placement of the wardrobe in front of the window, and had the wind knocked out of him by something blunt and forceful, and the sense knocked out of him by the concrete floor.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the Archangel Michael standing over him, her spear at his throat. His wings were out, which was not something he'd done himself, and there was a searing pain in his left wing. He was able to move his head just enough to see that she had pinned it to the floor with a flaming sword. He fluttered his right wing uselessly, trying to fight, but she took a step, and ground her heel carefully into the carpal joint of his right wing. He made a rather undignified noise at that.

"Crowley," she said, using the point of the spear to make him look at her.

"Surprising amount of floorspace, actually," he said, nonsensically. "Didn't expect that. Practically palatial! Decor's a bit plain, though. So how've you been?"

"Good lord, do you _ever _shut up?" she sneered.

"You're the one who ambushed me, Michael. Did you -- did you _design _this place, or --" The spear dug into his neck. "Right. Right. You've probably realized I'm not a real renter."

"How did you survive the holy water, Crowley?" she snarled.

"I dunno, did you check the holiness level of it before you poured it? Maybe they have paper testing strips."

She shifted her weight onto his wing, and it made a horrible crunch. A shudder ran through him, and the spear nicked his chin. "It was the _holiest._"

"So everyone says. Maybe it wasn't, though. Maybe whoever made it was defici-- _aaaah,_" he said, as she reached over and pushed the flaming sword further into the floor -- further into his wing. "Nh. You're never getting your deposit back on this place. Assuming it's not yours."

"I am _not deficient,_" snapped Michael. "I'm the _Archangel Michael._"

"Right, right, yeah. Where's your little yes-angel squadron?" Crowley asked. "Or couldn't you find a flat big enough for them to fit into it too?"

"Can you stop talking about the flat for five minutes together?" snapped Michael. "Tell me how you survived!" she demanded.

"Can't," said Crowley. "It's. What's that word you lot are so fond of? It's _ineffable _\--"

"It's definitely not," she snapped, "and you're going to tell me, Crowley, you're going to tell me or I will see how invulnerable you are to _every sharp thing I can find._" Casually, she held the point of her spear over the flame of the sword.

Crowley didn't like where this was going. Or where it had started, frankly. Everything, generally, was pretty well fucked. So he decided to lie his head off. All good lies had a grain of truth, and he figured he could appeal to her angelic sensibilities, so he made his voice soft and earnest. "It's because we love each other. We fell in love and we became more than an angel or a demon and we --" He hissed in pain as she pressed the hot point of her spear into his cheek, just below his eye, and the heat made his eye water.

She pulled the spear away. "This isn't children's television, Crowley," she snapped.

"What, isn't that what it's all about? Love, and all that? Aziraphale says --"

"Aziraphale is an idiot," said Michael.

"He is better than any of you ever will be," snarled Crowley, and pain ran through his wings as he tried, halfheartedly to lunge at her.

"Stop lying, demon! How did you survive?" she shouted, seeming uncertain as to where exactly to put the spear next. Crowley watched it, frozen, as if it was a wasp at a picnic. "It wasn't _love,_ don't be ridiculous. Try again."

All good lies had a grain of truth, he told himself again. "We fucked," he said, plainly, bluntly. "Maybe he redeemed me a little, and I pulled him down. Maybe it was all that _oh god oh god_ or whatever. Maybe it was --"

But Michael looked absolutely infuriated now -- not offended, as he thought she would be, but enraged beyond belief. She jammed the spear into one of his shoulders and pressed down, putting all her weight on his wing and his shoulder, and he screamed. "You liar! You _liar!_ How did you do it? I know you're lying, don't keep lying to me, don't you _dare._"

This was not the Michael he had known -- the dispassionate, cold, calculating Michael who'd sent half her species to Hell in the name of God and never looked back. Despite being pinned down by her, he was very curious, and he wanted to poke this new Michael with a stick. So he provoked her. "How would you know?" Crowley asked. "Ever tried it?" He waggled his eyebrows, and she pulled her spear back. The expression on her face wasn't shock, though, or disgust. It was _guilt._

And then he realized how she might know. Realized that there was one demon, recently deceased, who always seemed to know what Heaven was up to, and realized that maybe he and Aziraphale weren't the only two enemies who'd found common ground, somewhere in six thousand years of time.

"Oh, __Michael.__ This isn't about how Aziraphale and I survived, is it?" The fury was back on her face. "I'm not getting out of here alive, am I?"

"Tell me how and I'll kill you quickly," she snapped.

"Won't do Ligur any good, now, though, will it?"

Michael kicked him viciously in the ribs. Then she reached down and grabbed the chain around his neck, wrenching it up, and he winced as the sword dug into his wing. "How did you do it, Crowley?" she snarled, getting closer to his face than he really liked.

"Nah," said Crowley, because he might be terrified (he was) and about to get an Archangelic smiting (oh, he was) but he wasn't going to put Aziraphale at risk of a renewed attempt on his life with hellfire.

"I can't make you Fall again," said Michael.

"Yeah, no, you can't," said Crowley. He wondered if she was going to say she wanted to, or something.

"But I can cut you further off from God," she said, and Crowley actually blinked, he was so confused.

"Sso? Got no usse for Her anyway," said Crowley.

And Michael smiled. Crowley didn't like that, not at all. "No use. Tell me, demon, do you have no use for miracles? No use for existence?"

"Well, when you put it like tha--" But she had started to work, and Crowley felt a surge of something travel through the necklace and into his neck, and --

No. It wasn't a surge of something. It was a surge of _nothing._

He reached out in vain at Michael's hand, clutching his necklace, and saw his fingers become translucent, saw the veins and bones within, and saw them fade. He tried to cry out, but nothing happened.

Then it all snapped back into existence, and he felt tingling in his hands and feet and at the tips of his wings. (Well. The wing that was not currently asleep due to an Archangel standing on it.)

"Talk, Crowley," said Michael. "Or I'll keep doing it."

"Nhh," said Crowley. "Nnn." He tried again. "_No,_" he finally managed.

She twisted the chain, and he felt himself _flicker._

There was no Crowley to scream, for a moment.

"But really," said Crowley, raggedly, when he was back. "You and _Ligur? Ligur? Really?_" He had to keep her talking, he decided, because not existing just wasn't his bag.

"I don't have to explain myself to --"

"What did he even __see__ in you?" Crowley asked.

The rage in her face was suddenly, wonderfully, replaced with surprise, and then even greater rage.

Crowley grinned. "No, but really, why Ligur?"

As she gripped the chain, it burned her hand as much as his neck. "You stop talking about him, you miserable traitor..."

_Crowley saw the colors he saw when he pressed his fingers to his eyelids, and the colors he saw when he looked into the sun too long, all at once._

"...twice now, first you turned your back on God..."

_He heard the high whining sound of a cochlear hair cell dying, a note that would not be heard again until he restored it with a snap of his fingers; he heard the sound of a train barreling towards an Underground station from a long way off; they were the same sound, and they were every sound._

"...trayed _Hell,_ I wouldn't expect you to know what it is to be devoted to a cause."

Crowley sensed that he had missed some of this conversation, but he got the general gist of it.

Michael was crying now, and he'd barely had to do anything; in fact, he hadn't even existed for a good few seconds, he thought. "How did you do it? Tell me! How!" She shook him -- no flickering from existence, just a mundane gesture of rage and frustration. A few tears fell from her cheeks and hit his face, where they burned painful streaks on his skin.

"I'm not telling you," Crowley said, flatly. "Just because you think I'm a traitor doesn't mean I'm going to betray Aziraphale like that."

She was on him then, stupid with rage, strangling him with her bare hands like that was any use. She was a lot stronger than him -- a lot stronger than almost anyone, really -- but Crowley didn't care, because he didn't need to breathe, really, only she was so fixated on making him hurt that she didn't notice how he was levering the sword out of the floor.

And once he wasn't pinned to the floor anymore he could -- with a great deal of pain and effort -- turn into a serpent and slip through her hands easily.

"Crowley!" she shouted, pursuing him into the horrible flat's horrible bathroom. Crowley curled himself into the tiny amount of space between the washing machine and the toilet, and watched with great satisfaction as Michael tried to pursue him and smacked her head on the slanted ceiling. He was forced to retreat behind the washing machine, though, as Michael crouched down and tried to grab him.

There were beautifully-realized oil paintings of Michael fighting Satan and striking down demons, and Crowley would've given his eyeteeth (Did he have eyeteeth in serpent form? He didn't know.) to bring any of the artists here to see her futilely trying to fish a recalcitrant snake demon out from behind some poorly-installed plumbing and reconsider their views on archangels. Her hand brushed his scales a few times, but mostly reached empty air. "Crowley, you _coward!_" she snarled.

"Absssolutely guilty of that one," he said, not coming out. "What'sss your point?"

She made an incoherent and graceless noise, and he heard her sniffing.

"But really, I don't know how you exsspected this to end," Crowley said. He didn't like Michael but he'd definitely got the impression she was smart enough not to fall in love with a demon and think it'd end well.

"With you dead," she snapped.

"I meant you and Ligur. You were ssso gung-ho about the fucking war, both of you, what'd you think, you'd go off happily into the sssunssset after the end of the world?"

"I was supposed to kill him!" she shouted. "_I_ was! We had a _pact! _ He wasn't supposed to -- not -- not _you!_"

Crowley considered this, while Michael sobbed. "If you'll pardon me for sssaying ssso --"

"I will not."

"-- that doesssn't ssseem like a very good basssisss for a relationship."

"Well, he might've killed me," Michael admitted, "but we both knew that wasn't very likely. But _you! _You -- you killed him and you got to live and nobody's even hunting you down. It's _wrong._"

Crowley had to laugh at that. "Oh, Michael. Sssix thousssand yearsss and you ssstill think the world should be _fair?_"

There was a worrying silence, and then the point of Michael's spear crashed through the washing machine, nicking him in the side. "It's what I'm _for,_ isn't it? It's what I _do!_" There was thunder in her voice, and ozone in the air.

Crowley made himself as flat as he could as the spear pierced the washing machine three more times, accompanied by shouts of pure rage. He slithered out from behind the ruins of the washing machine, hoping to get past Michael, but no -- she stepped on the tail end of him and grabbed him.

He struck, twice -- once on her hand and once on her arm -- and her blood burned his mouth, but she dropped him. But as he was slithering out into the kitchen/bedroom/living room/monument to high rents and low wages, she speared him in the gut and pinned him to the floor.

He struggled, trying to loosen the spear, but she grabbed him by the neck, now, and he couldn't strike.

"Doesssn't it jussst kill you," he said, "that you know you could've sssaved him, ssso easssily, and you didn't?"

She shook him. "_How?_ Tell me how, you _fucking_ \--__ how did you do it, how could I have -- just tell me and I'll put you out of your misery, you disgusting thing."

Ah. She was still stuck on that, wasn't she? Crowley'd meant not having the war, but this clarified things for him. _This _was what she was looking for, from him. Not just revenge, and not just information on the bodyswap, but some kind of forgiveness.

Crowley had no control over whether she'd take her revenge, but he certainly wasn't going to grant her absolution. She didn't deserve it, and besides, it had been pretty much the opposite of his job description for six thousand years.

"Well, for ssstartersss," said Crowley, "you could've tried to cancssel Armageddon?" She stared at him. "Tell me, were you too wrapped up in your fantasssy tragic love ssstory, or could you jussst not fathom a world where you didn't get to be the hero ssswooping in at the end to punish the unrighteousss?"

"You -- that isn't --"

"You didn't need to give him an immunity to holy water, you absssolute _wanker,_ you jussst needed to keep him from coming after the perssson trying to prevent Armageddon! Do you really think thisss isss jussst? _Thisss?_ Revenge on me, who killed your fuckbuddy in ssself defenssse, because _you _didn't get to kill him firssst?"

She was shaking now, and blinking back tears, and gripping him so hard he might actually discorporate and have to talk himself out of Hell. "Don't you get sanctimonious at _me,_ serpent," she snarled, and stared at him for a long moment, and Crowley was waiting for the final blow.

It didn't come.

Instead she opened up the fridge and shoved him inside, all fifteen feet of him, while he struggled and bit and fought. Tangled and freezing, Crowley tried to push the door open, but he was suddenly overcome by a terrible feeling of pins-and-needles all over, and the bottom of the fridge was burning him.

She'd _blessed the fridge._

He managed to pile as much of himself onto the ice tray and the shelves as possible, and sank into a torpor.

When the door opened again, Crowley didn't know how long it had been; at first he was conscious only of light and warm hands, and he panicked, because she'd come back, she'd come back after chilling him for some reason, she was going to kill him for real now.

Only the warm hands were gentle and the voice was lower, and soothing, and Crowley coiled around this body and found it was comfortable. Everything was a bit of a blur after that; he could tell they were moving, and he didn't know what was going on and he couldn't even think, really, but it was better than being murdered.

When he came to once more, things made a lot more sense, but also very little sense.

He was at the bookshop. He was coiled around Aziraphale, who was reading a book. His head lay against Aziraphale's neck. That was all normal enough. But also, given the last events he remembered clearly...

"Angel?" he muttered.

"Oh!" He could feel Aziraphale's pulse speed up, coiled as he was around all of him. "My dearest. Are you all right?"

"Nh. Ssstill a little fuzzy." Aziraphale stroked his head and he leaned into it; he was warm enough, now, but the memory of the cold was still with him, and everything about Aziraphale meant safety and comfort. "How'd you find me?"

"When you didn't show up for dinner, I called you, and it wasn't like you not to answer for so long, so I, ah. Please don't be angry?"

"Angel, you sssaved me," Crowley said.

"I went to your flat, and when I realized you weren't there either, I looked at your computer, and, er. Your electronic mail --"

"Email, it'sss called email, angel," said Crowley.

"-- and I saw that you'd decided to tour this flat -- which, Crowley, if you're going to move to _Kensal _\--"

"I'm not!"

"-- there _must _be nicer places than _that _to live --"

"I wasss -- I wasss only trolling the landlord," said Crowley. This defense had not worked in the Garden of Eden, and he was pretty sure it wasn't going to work now, either, but it was true enough.

"Well," said Aziraphale. "That's as it may be, my dear, but how did you end up in the refrigerator, as a snake? You had some very bad cuts when I found you, too, although I think I managed to heal those up without burning you too badly with the blessings."

"Ah." Crowley was too large a snake to hide his face in Aziraphale's collar, so he decided to manfully -- snakefully -- just own up to where he'd gone wrong. "The landlord turned out to be the Archangel Michael, who --"

"Heaven's not supposed to interfere!" said Aziraphale.

"No, no, it wasssn't Heaven, it wasss Michael," said Crowley. "She -- er. Thisss one'sss going to be difficult to believe."

Aziraphale waited.

"She had a thing with Ligur."

"A thing?" Aziraphale asked.

"A -- well. An Arrangement," said Crowley. Aziraphale made a noise of disbelief. "Not like oursss, no, theirsss wasss a ssspecial, ssstupid Arrangement."

"Ah, yes. Quite unlike the unspeakably clever one we had."

Crowley flicked his tongue at the ticklish spot just under Aziraphale's ear, to shut him up. "What I _mean _isss -- they did it backwardsss."

"So instead of agreeing not to interfere with each other's work and --"

"And pretending not to be desssperately in love," said Crowley. "They -- they interfered with each other, and --"

"Ah," said Aziraphale.

"Yeah," said Crowley.

"Michael and Ligur__,__ though?" Aziraphale asked.

"I _know!_" said Crowley.

"And then she just stuffed you into the refrigerator?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nah, she kicked me around a bit firssst," Crowley admitted.

"Oh, my poor dear," said Aziraphale. "Can you -- would you turn back? Perhaps I can help."

Crowley did, and ended up draped over Aziraphale and half in his lap. When they'd disentangled themselves a bit, Aziraphale looked him over, tsking and muttering, "oh dear," and "oh _no,_" and "my poor darling!" the whole time. He healed the worst wounds -- the broken wing, the stabbed shoulder -- and left the lesser wounds for Crowley, when he was feeling more up to it -- the slice on his cheek, the burns from the chain and from Michael's tears, the bruises on his ribs. Afterwards, Aziraphale just held him, and Crowley pressed close to him, not wanting to leave or even, particularly, to move.

"You don't think she'll try it again, do you?" Aziraphale asked, eventually.

"Hope not," said Crowley. "I think I made her feel guilty about it, though."

"Hmph. I don't think Michael's ever felt guilty about anything," said Aziraphale. "She's -- well. Very much above all that."

"Looked pretty guilty to me," said Crowley. "Maybe I'm just that good."

"I would be very impressed, but if anyone could make her doubt herself it'd be you, you wicked thing," said Aziraphale.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, angel," said Crowley, and kissed him gently. He made a happy noise into Crowley's mouth. When he pulled away, Crowley said "I wouldn't worry about it, though. She clearly didn't have Heaven's permission."

"Do you think I should tell them?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nah," said Crowley. "We can hold it over her head if she fucks with us again."

They sat in silence for another minute or so.

Then Aziraphale said, "Do you _promise _you're not moving to a horrid flat in Kensal?"

"Absolutely not," said Crowley. "Really, angel, I've got better taste than that!"

"If -- if you wanted to move --"

"I was trolling landlords!" insisted Crowley.

"-- I could certainly -- I mean, if it's not too much -- if it's not presumptuous -- I could -- I could make room for you here," said Aziraphale, hopefully.

Switching gears from _explaining embarrassing demon hobby to an anxious angel _to _answering a serious relationship step proposal _was a simple task for the very smooth-talking and extremely coherent Crowley, who responded with a perfectly comprehensible "Gmfh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that after -- well, today was so -- but I'd been thinking --"

"No, no, angel, I just --" Crowley tried to decide between five different things he wanted to say all at once, then just grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him, which Aziraphale seemed to find a very satisfactory answer indeed.


End file.
